Fussball @ Le Baron London

Just imagine:

Saturday night, you’re surrounded by your amazingly creative friends and have a wholehearted fun, not just some empty, alcohol fuelled party with some tiny dicks spraying Dom in your face.

Hours later, you’re enjoying a hot tub under the open skies (in January) in your (black) la perla and it seems that life just cannot get any better, but you go on and on and end up walking the streets of soho in torn tights with knickers on your head.

Complete lunatic, studio54 wannabe etc etc.

And then bloody Monday comes and you’re in your Savile Row suit in your office crunching numbers.

I meeeaaannn… whaddafuck.

How come deejays are less of a junkies than bankers? And bankers are sluttier than, say, artists? How come I ended like one?

Am I doomed?